


chi no nioi

by archerhatesyou



Series: romance in the bakumatsu [2]
Category: Gohatto | Taboo (1999)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Character Study, M/M, Oshimaverse, Present Tense, Tragedy, mostly minimalist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6581992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerhatesyou/pseuds/archerhatesyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say Kanō is beautiful—but Souji shines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	chi no nioi

_Kanō has had three cups of sake in two minutes, and Yuzawa is talking. He's saying lots of things about upper ranks, and Kanō's head is swimming but he hears him say_ Okita Souji _so he must be included in the complaint. It's just like what Okita-sensei said about everyone thinking the Shieikan men have a chokehold on the organization, and maybe it's true but surely Okita-sensei doesn't have such sway. But Yuzawa is pushing him and the room spins and he feels a dull snap as the knot in his himo pulls loose and he can hardly register what's happening but the clothes pulled back to reveal his skin are replaced by a like warmth and he thinks he knows what's happening but his head is too filled of Souji to know what to do._

_All he hears is the sound of rain._

* * *

Kanō Sōzaburō is the only recruit wearing white. He does this purposefully. His face is striking, but he must draw attention to it somehow; white makes them curious. And if there is blood, they will see it. They will smell it.

The vice-commander drones on to the chief as the prospective recruits demonstrate their skills, and Kanō only snatches bits of it but they must be discussing heritage. These men from Edo, Kanō outranks them socially, even if his family has fallen. These men are farmers. They've always been farmers. Even Kondō inherited his dōjō, his name, from a family that wasn't his own. Hijikata is _still_ just a peddler with a sword.

But Kanō doesn't care. Like real samurai, they're only men. And they have what he wants.

The hopefuls are of little interest to Kanō, but the man testing them is impressive. He is a captain, among their youngest, twenty maybe. He is also infamous in the city as one of their top swordsmen—the best, according to some.

And it shows. He is quick, his style brash, and blunt, and forthright—but still surprising. Kanō can read every recruit's every move, but the captain is difficult to predict. _So quick._ And rather than tiring, every match invigorates him; he is fresh each time a new opponent is called forward.

When it is Kanō's turn, the captain is breathing lightly, wisps of hair coming loose from its tie, hovering about in the sunlight the way it might float underwater. With a short huff he blows a few bothersome hairs away from his face. It's a nice face, and smiling. That is what strikes Kanō most profoundly. Also that the captain is small, but his fine posture commands admiration, graceful and sound as an animal. It's a slur often used for the Shinsengumi—bakufu's dogs, wolves of Mibu—but he really is like a mountain dog. Light on his feet, and proud, but with the respect to treat you seriously, the humility to look you in the eye, to devour you just as completely as all the rest.

This pain, this stirring in Kanō's chest—he wonders if it's what the others feel when they look at him.

* * *

"Why did they choose you?" says Tashiro-san. When Kanō glances at him, he's gazing up at the regulations posted on the wall, contemplating them like zen kōan.

Kanō thinks it's because Hijikata didn't believe his age. That had rankled him. A man is a man from fifteen, and at his extraordinary height Kanō looks at least that old. Fifteen or eighteen, it shouldn't matter.

Still, Kanō is soft-looking and Tashiro-san is more mature, his features finer, sharp. It makes sense that one of them might inspire less confidence. They know Kanō can fight, but that is hardly enough. They need to know that he can kill. Few things are more intimate than beheadings, so it will make a fine trial.

But he doesn't say anything.

* * *

Kanō is not here to make friends, but he recognizes the benefit of having one. Tashiro-san would make for an easy target, but he behaved badly at the execution and will be jailed for five nights. Five nights, Kanō will be the only new recruit. He fears the manner of attention he will earn, isolated like a baby animal from its herd.

So he goes to see Okita-sensei.

He is alone in the room he shares with another captain. It's irrational but for a moment Kanō is envious. Though maybe it lasts more than a moment.

"Kanō-kun."

When he jumps, Okita-sensei laughs. "What kind of swordsman is that, startled by his own shadow?"

Kanō bows deeply. "I apologize."

"Stand up, I'm just ribbing you. Did you need something?"

Does he? He can't well answer that he simply _wants_ to be here. He has no excuse prepared, so he says nothing.

"Oi," says Okita-sensei, and Kanō's ears burn because an answer is going to be demanded of him but his chest feels vacant.

Instead, Okita-sensei says, "Come sit."

With anyone else Kanō might ask why, but he will obey this man. He sits on his knees behind the small writing desk, across from Okita-sensei, though not so close as to be disrespectful.

He asks, "Are you pleased with your appointment?"

"Yes, very," says Kanō.

"How did you feel about the execution?"

"I did well."

Okita-sensei frowns, but it's not really a frown. "So I hear. I appreciate your confidence."

"Thank you."

"So then what's the matter?" He allows Kanō to flounder for an answer for a few moments. "Afraid of the other men?"

"I'm not afraid of them."

"No?"

"I just don't trust them. Yet." He adds the last part, because this man is a captain and should be reassured that his new recruit is willing to integrate. Kanō needs to remain here, at all costs.

"That's alright," says Okita-sensei. "I prefer not to force trust among the men. It's stronger when earned. Don't you think?"

"Yes sir."

"Forced trust isn't real trust, anyway, is it."

"No, sir."

"What will make you trust them?"

Kanō tries to untangle the threads in his head, to provide a worthy answer. "Time," he says eventually. He's not sure it's true, but it is plausible, at least.

Okita-sensei makes a not-frown again, nodding. "But you trust me."

"What?"

"It takes time to trust someone, and you don't trust the men yet. But you've come here to see me."

"With you, it's . . . respect."

"Not trust?"

"It's respect."

"Good. I'd be worried if you trusted me already."

"Why?" Kanō does trust him already.

Okita-sensei shrugs; he's not going to answer. He has that right. "Have you ever seen Edo?" he asks.

Kanō shakes his head.

"It's much more than just a large city. Because of the port, you know? It doesn't matter what you think of foreigners politically, you can't deny they are fascinating. Their personality, their beliefs, their trinkets. . . . Have you seen any Western art?"

Kanō shakes his head.

This makes Okita-sensei smile, and Kanō's insides are on fire. "Have you seen _any_ art?"

"Some," says Kanō, abashed, but not so much that he might wish to escape this conversation. His head is so scrambled that in this moment he can't even say whether it's true, if he's seen any art or not. He's not even sure what that means.

"There's a certain realism to Western art," Okita-sensei is saying. "It's technically impressive, I suppose, but not all that interesting as a viewer. I think that's the point of art, to escape reality. Bend it to your will, rather than hold a mirror up to it."

Kanō nods. He doesn't understand.

"You disagree?"

"I. . . ." _Can't talk to you._ "I don't give it much thought."

"No?" Okita-sensei shifts, uncrosses his arms, crosses them again with the other arm on top. "In that case, I should advise you to steer clear of Itou-san. He values the pen more highly than the sword."

"Then what's he doing _here_?"

As soon as it's out Kanō panics, fearing reprimand, but Okita-sensei laughs. It's loud, and the smile spreads to his eyes, pulls at the hair above his forehead. "Oh, so many of us wonder that very thing, Kanō-kun."

"Sōzaburō."

"Pardon?"

Kanō's hand reaches up to his own neck, hot to the touch. He rubs at the little hollow between his collarbones, and resists the urge to press in and choke himself. "I'd prefer if you'd call me Sōzaburō."

Okita-sensei tilts his head, intrigued somehow.

"Will you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"Enough to talk to Itou-san."

"Believe me, you don't _want_ to talk to Itou-san."

"Teach me anyway. I don't want to be someone who only knows the sword. I want to be smart like you."

Okita-sensei stops smiling, and it doesn't suit his face. "I'm not smart."

"Yes you are."

"I'm just curious. I just notice things."

"Then teach me that, I don't have even that."

"You notice plenty. You're a good swordsman, and you can't be good without being aware."

"I mean curiosity."

One of his brows arches, and Kanō drinks in these subtle shifts in his expression. "How am I to teach curiosity?"

"Teach me how to ask questions."

"Ah." He nods and closes his eyes, allowing Kanō to admire the plush curves of his lips without interruption. He is startled when Okita-sensei opens his eyes again. "I see what you mean."

"Can you teach me?"

"I can try."

Kanō nods emphatically.

"But really, you've already got the right idea. You just have to keep asking questions. Even your answers should be questions."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah—did you go to a temple school?"

"No."

"So are you very familiar with Buddhism?"

"No. . . ."

"Me neither. But I appreciate the aesthetics, I think there's a lot to be gained there."

Kanō doesn't know what he's referring to, and he's not ready to embarrass himself by asking.

Okita-sensei's brows furrow, eyes narrow. "Let me do a little reading, and we'll pick up another time. Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course. Anything you say."

"Well. I've got a bit of business to attend to," he says, his voice thinned as he stands and stretches his arms above his head. "So, out."

"Yes, sir." Kanō minds his posture more closely than usual as he stands up out of seiza.

"Oh—Sōzaburō."

Never has his own name given him chills.

"When you're in this room," says Okita-sensei, eyes darting from one wall to another, "call me Souji." He flashes one last smile, and on his way out squeezes Kanō's elbow.

Kanō falls to his knees, and bends over. _Souji,_ he mouths it into the tatami, this room. _Souji._

It's so, so hard to breathe.

* * *

They say that Kanō is beautiful, but he thinks himself synthesized, carved and lifeless as a doll. Like a doll, he can be _made_ to move, but he has always preferred to lie still, unnoticed and forgotten. As he grew older he realized that they would _always_ notice him, no matter how unmoving. That they, too, preferred him to lie still. And as Kanō realized that he would need to kill, he picked up a sword. He doesn't know when it happened, but it has become more than a survival skill. He wonders if they would find him less or more beautiful if he admitted it.

They say Kanō is beautiful—but Souji shines.

He is bright, brilliant, cultured in a way that Kanō had always thought useless, but he admires it in Souji. And people talk to him, laugh with him, and he _laughs_. He smiles, even when he fights, because he enjoys it. Fighting? No . . . Kanō thinks that Souji just enjoys living.

He has what Kanō wants.


End file.
